Does he ever relax?

“Maybe an animal made that other path outside my cabin,” she stated.

He shook his head and placed the sandwiches in the pan. “Definitely human.”

“We haven’t seen anyone since we got here. I feel bad for the people who own that cabin. I can imagine there’s fire danger during the summer, but I doubt they expected it in the middle of winter. Do you know the owners?”

“No.”

“Do you live here?”

He gave a half grin and his face finally relaxed a bit. “Heck no. I like solitude but not every single day of my life. I have a place south of Portland. Brian needs the socialization he gets from school. I don’t want him to be a hermit like me.”

She studied him. “You’re a hermit?”

He looked away. “No. I just like quiet. I homeschooled Brian for a long time and thought I was doing a good job until my sister Jamie set me straight. She’s an elementary-school principal. Brian didn’t have any friends his own age because we lived in a remote area.”

“Violet occasionally begs to be homeschooled. Usually when she is having some sort of argument with a friend. Even if I had the time, I’m not the type of person who can do that and stay sane.”

He gave a small smile. “It was good for us. But I did it only until he was eight.”

“You haven’t mentioned his mother.”

His smile vanished. “She died a long time ago in a car accident. Brian doesn’t remember her.”

Gianna understood. Too well. “Violet doesn’t remember her father either. Eddie’s diagnosis and death happened within six months of her birth. She’d cry and cry about having no memories of her dad. That’s when we’d take a few hours to go through every picture and video of him I have. It’s never been enough, but it helps.”

“I don’t have any pictures.”

She straightened. “None? How . . .” Seeing the closed look on his face, she let the question die. It’s none of my business. “I’m very sorry,” she said softly. She was truly sorry, and her heart hurt for the little boy who didn’t have a single picture of his mother.

“I’ve drawn some. They’re pretty accurate.”

“That’s lovely.”

The conversation came to a sudden halt. Gianna didn’t want to probe, and Chris clearly was done with the topic. Her brain raced for a safe subject. “Are you sure we can get out to the ranger station tomorrow?”

His shoulders straightened. “I think so. The plows should have been working out on the highways all day and hopefully they’ll get to our road, but I imagine the ice has created some complications, so it might take longer. I’m just glad I wasn’t back in the city. They were supposed to get hit with the ice storm, too. Nothing like a city full of hills and an unprepared population.”

“Unprepared? They don’t salt?” Gianna asked.

“Nope. And there are even fewer plows in the city than out here. Portland doesn’t get enough snow to justify the purchase of a huge fleet. It’s not like the East Coast. We just dig in and wait it out. You’ll see.”

“Dig in? For a tiny bit of ice?”

“Absolutely. Or for a half inch of snow. The kids love it. City schools cancel right and left.” He abruptly stopped speaking and stiffened his shoulders.

The far-off crack and echo of a gunshot reached Gianna’s ears.

And then another one.

Chris froze, listening as he held the metal spatula above the pan.

Gianna waited for a third shot that didn’t come.

“Hunters?” she asked.

“Could be.”

“Is it hunting season?”

“Doesn’t really matter if it’s not. People still shoot.”

Chris flipped the sandwich in the pan, barely registering that it wasn’t golden enough. Every ounce of his attention was directed toward the outdoors, waiting for more shots. Closer shots.

None came.

He felt Gianna’s gaze as she looked to him to determine whether she should be concerned.

He didn’t know the answer.

He flipped the other not-ready sandwich and met her gaze, forcing a small smile. “Maybe someone’s bored.”

He ran through a mental checklist. There were four guns in his cabin. A pistol in the drawer to his right and three more weapons in the gun safe next to the couch where Violet slept.

Gianna didn’t smile back. “Are we safe?”

“Yes.”

“Are you armed?”

He pointed at the gun safe with his spatula. “Yes.”

She stood and moved to a window, pushing aside the heavy curtain. Motionless, she stared out the window for a good thirty seconds. “It sounded pretty far off.”

“I agree.” Melted cheese oozed out of one sandwich and sizzled in the pan. “Hungry?”

“Starving.” Gianna sat on a rickety stool at the kitchen island.

“You’ve been sick,” he stated.

She frowned. “I wasn’t sick until the fire. I seemed to have had a bad reaction to something I ate or drank, or perhaps to the smoke. My brain is seriously muddled and I honestly can’t remember what happened last night.”

Chris waited.

“I had only one glass of wine last night. I think . . . I really can’t remember, but I feel like I’ve been drugged,” she admitted.

He agreed. From his extensive surgeries, he’d had experience with every kind of prescription pain-killer and could recognize when someone was highly medicated. “You don’t take anything?” he asked. He moved to her side of the tiny island, studying her eyes, trying to get a look at her pupils. Her irises were so dark that the pupils were hard to see. Violet had the same eyes. “Any sore spots on your skull?” He reached out and gently pressed in several areas. Gianna copied his movements, feeling her own skull.